FATE OF A WOMAN- BY SUMAILA UMAISHA

(Flash fiction)

Sitting on the bed, Asabe unfastened the first button of her blouse, revealing her cleavage. She fumbled with the second button, listening for the car. Voices of the hotel staff, shuffling steps along the passages, and the dreamy silence of distance. No car sound. Her mind rode on the silence to her past with Garba.

She had considered him good luck, a dream realised. Back then. The frequent visits to each other’s place and office. The occasional visits to Zaria Gate Resort. Boundless joy shared by only two.

She undid the button. The cool breeze from the air-conditioner, blowing over the cleavage, gave her a sense of nakedness though three buttons still remained. Her fingers lingering on the third one, her mind drifted to Garba again.

Her friends had called meeting him divine providence. She believed them. She believed in divine love. 

They met one sunny day on her way home from work. She had dropped from public transport and was trekking the remaining distance. He drove past, braked suddenly, and reversed.

‘Hi,’ he said, sticking his big head out of the window.

‘Hello,’ she replied hesitantly.

After staring at her, he said, ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone I know. Sorry.’

‘No problem.’

‘But I can still give you a lift.’

‘No, thanks. I’m almost home.’

‘Seriously,’ he insisted.

Within a week they started going out. First casually. Then she became deeply fascinated by him, especially his big head. Strangely.

Her slender fingers pulled out the button. Working on the fourth button, her eyes strayed to the table mirror. The large eyes, pointed nose, and sumptuous lips. She was still beautiful despite everything. She tried to see beyond the eyes, and those painted nails fiddling with the button. But she could not go beyond the gaze. Nor could she understand the fingers – moving as if they were not hers. She seemed locked out of herself. 

Her eyes dropped to her exposed bosoms. Silence descended again, broken only by faint laughter from the next room; one masculine, one feminine, intertwined with each other. 

She looked up at the mirror once more. 

‘But it’s not my fault,’ she said. ‘What would one not do if one is dying from waiting?’

‘What would one not do?’ the lips echoed inaudibly. 

‘What else would you do after exploring all decent options?’

‘What else would you do?’ Calm. Elderly. Sarcastic.

She yanked off the remaining buttons, removed the blouse, and flung it on the coffee table. She reached for her bra strap, then stopped. Let him undo it himself.

She walked to the door and peeked through the peephole anxiously. He should come quick and let her get it over with. Time was not on her side. 

‘Time has never been on anyone’s side.’ The words seemed to come from the mirror. 

She returned to the bed and picked up her phone. 

‘You are delaying,’ she whined.

‘Sorry, I will soon be there,’ he said faintly. ‘It is this traffic hold-up.’

She loosened the skirt strap, leaving the zipper ready. Then she lay on her back and closed her eyes. In the darkness, she saw Graba approaching. Coming back to her, as he always did in her lonely moments, for the past seven years that he left her. He looked remorseful, walking on a crutch of sorrow. 

I’m sorry to have left like that, his body seemed to say. There’s no excuse for disappearing from a five-year-old relationship when marriage was only a month away. I’m really sorry.

He kept advancing like a ghost. She was tempted to open her eyes and end his advance. But she decided to hear him out this time. 

Some of his colleagues said he was transferred. Others said he resigned. Others said he just left. Later inquiries proved the last version true. He found another job and disappeared without telling her.

What had she done to deserve such treatment? Was it because she bore him a child out of wedlock? He had suggested abortion, but she refused. The girl was now in school. A kid without a father. People called her bastard. But she called her Zuwaira, after her late mother.

I vowed not to allow any man to treat me the way you did, she said, as Garba came closer. And that has become the thorn between me and Hassan. Like you, he wants intimacy before marriage. Since we met a year ago, he had kept pressing. Now, taking advantage of my being in Kano for a workshop, he had come again with his persistent quest.

‘Why lodge in a hotel in Kano?’ he had said. ‘What’s wrong with my house?’

‘The room was booked in advance by the office,’ I lied.

He insisted on staying the night. I allowed him to stay but resisted him throughout. He left coldly this morning. Later, I decided to call him back. I’m tired of remaining a spinster. A chronic spinster, because of you, Garba... 

A knock on the door shattered the darkness.

‘I’m coming.’ She got up quickly and reached for the key on the table. The mirror reflected her dangling bosoms as she bent. She felt something within.

‘It is the fate of the woman,’ she responded.

‘It is the fate of a woman,’ the mirror replied flatly now, no longer accusing.

Another knock came. ‘It’s me, Asabe.’

‘I’m coming,’ she said, hurriedly buttoning up. 

She rearranged her hair and spent the next fifteen minutes dressing and packing. She had intended to stay another night and rest after the workshop.

‘I have changed my mind,’ she said to herself. 

Then she opened the door.

Hassan entered, anger boiling within him.

‘You kept me standing outside.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, and picked up her bag. ‘I’m on my way.’

‘Back to Zaria?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sorry.’

‘But you called me back.’

‘Yes. I called you so we could part properly. You left annoyed, and I don’t want that. Even if we break up, let it end gently.’

He was too surprised to speaker further. 

They left the room in silence. They descended the stairs like strangers; he was a step ahead of her. At the reception she went to submit the key, while he proceeded towards the revolving exit door.

‘Are you checking out today, Hajiya?’ the receptionist asked.

‘Yes.’

As she waited for the receipt, she took out two one-thousand-naira notes from her purse. 

‘Sign here, ma.’

She signed, tore off the page, and gave him the tip.

‘Wow! Thank you, ma,’ he exclaimed, and came forward to take her bag.

‘No,’ she declined.

‘No, ma,’ he grabbed it, and hurried off.

By the exit, she met the hotel manager.

‘Madam, you are leaving?’

‘Yes,’ she replied with a smile.

‘Hope you enjoyed your stay?’

‘Very well.’

‘Have a nice trip. Looking forward to having you again.’

‘Thank you.’

Outside, she met Hassan placing her bag in the boot.

They settled in the car. Then he noticed one button of her blouse was undone. Quietly, he reached out and fastened it.

THE END

© Sumaila Umaisha

- Nigeria